


The Wind From His Sails

by inbox



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Fingerfucking, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 05:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10404540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: Deacon is skilled at many things, but whispering effortless dirty nothings to his objet d'amour is not one of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Courtesy warning: non op men, front hole penetration with fingers, non op ejaculation.   
> Language choices: hole, dick, cunt.

Preston hauls himself up on one elbow and looks beseechingly back over his shoulder, eyes watery and nose running, and clears his throat politely.

Amazing. Pure Preston. It’s like he’s calling for attention at a formal meeting, not buck naked from the waist down on a carpentry table, getting done so so right by this real handsome guy - super handsome, a total looker, even comes with his own costume department - while grinding grimy workshop dust into the front of his sweaty shirt in the most incriminating pattern possible.

Deacon’s putting at least three quarters of his attention into playing this beefsteak like a fiddle. He’s hunched over the flat of Preston’s back and giving him the fingering of a lifetime; like, this is actual effort, practically exercise, practically _physical labour_ that he’s doing here. Still this sweetheart still manages to make a polite cough that sounds like he’s about to hand Deacon a cost:benefit analysis sheet. 

It’d be insulting if it wasn’t so… so _Garvey_. God.

“Shoot,” says Deacon for the want of something better to say, and adds a little bend to his wrist, presses deep and firm. Preston opens his mouth to say something and breathes _ohhhhhhhh_ instead. Gotta… yeah, there. There we go. Location found, log it in his mental file.

> _Preston Garvey: Minutemen stalwart, right handed, invented the Boston Bomb (chug half a Dogpaw stout and top off the bottle with mutfruit brandy, drink and repeat until you can’t remember anything after ‘hand me a beer’), sleeps on the left side of the mattress, g-spot enthusiast, generally ideologically compatible with Railroad activities, future recruitment candidate, very dateable._

This is still all new. Newish. New enough that he’s got a good idea of what makes Preston warble out a stream of cusses that’ll turn the air blue, but not familiar enough that he’s got all his key points and hot spots keyed into his memory. Which is fun, _hugely fun,_ don’t get him wrong, but if Preston still has the ability to cough politely then he’s gotta step up his game. Really belt it out of the park. Really, fuck, really work on his sports analogies.

His wrist and shoulder are gonna feel like hell later but he’s going to multitask with the pads of his fingers rubbing smooth and deep in Preston’s hole and his thumb on Preston’s dick and his free hand knotted into the sweaty cotton of Preston’s shirt.  Deacon is a professional. He has pride in his skills. He’s gonna make this nice man that he’s kinda dating kinda fooling around with kinda recruiting kinda just, y’know, just feeling it out… wait, shit, get back on track.

Don’t get distracted.

He’s gonna make Garvey holler like a sailor and buckle at the knees by the righteous power of a good well constructed orgasm, by god, because that’s the kind of beautiful sweaty vision that keeps him up at night.

“That’s… that’s real good,” says Preston, shaky. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and blinks a few times, panting deep, and only rolls his eyes a little when Deacon winks real big and lets go of his shirt to cock him a sharp fingergun.

“That’s the goal, sweetheart,” says Deacon breezily. “Feeling good is a service I’m happy to provide.”

Preston laughs at that, dropping his head onto his forearm and wheezing between hitched breaths as Deacon relentlessly works him towards orgasm. “Do-- do you ever listen to yourself? At all?”

“Rude,” says Deacon into Garvey’s ear. “I'm performing my civil service here, doing my part to look after the brave men who look after me.”

He laughs even harder at that, muscles clamping down firm on Deacon’s fingers. “ _Men_ ,” he says with a snort, and subtly widens his boots on the pressed earth floor in an invitation for Deacon to continue his ministrations. “Are you telling me you do this for everyone, Deacon?”

“Hey, c’mon. You're twisting my words, Garvey,” says Deacon, half mock hurt, half cutting, and a tiny bit sincere. “You got me, it’s just one good lookin’ man. Or one today, anyway. Who knows what my schedule is gonna look like tomorrow? I’m very in demand.”

“Good lord,” says Preston into his elbow. “I oughta stuff a belt in your mouth next time.”

The line catches Deacon offside and he flounders for a moment, struggling for something appropriately witty and suave and _horny_ to zing back.  

“That costs extra,” he says eventually. God, that’s weak. He’s off his game. Garvey, bless his kind heart, settles for merely laughing at him. Deacon can feel every chuckle on his fingers buried deep in Preston’s hole, and that makes him even more flustered. 

God. Shit. He’s in love. This is gonna kill him. Death by Preston, what a way to go.

Preston looks back at him with those big beautiful eyes and makes a show of sucking the fingers of his free hand slick and wet. “You mind?” he asks kindly ‘round his knuckles, as if Deacon could bring himself to begrudge him of anything in the first place. 

Anything. _Anything_. He’d like to shower him with fine wines, precious jewels, a new pair of boots with the heels not tack-hammered in place. Deacon has none of these, of course, but it's the thought that counts. There's probably a stanza he could quote about stealing the stars from the sky just for Garvey, or at least a limerick about shoving a bottle of filched moonshine under his jacket and wooing his objet d'amour with brahminshit stories to make him laugh, but hell if Preston can't knock the wind outta his sails without actually trying.

Maybe that's the attraction here. He's always had a soft spot for the disarmingly nice ones. Garvey is a sweet smile atop a will of iron, and he could kick Deacon’s ass from here to the waterfront if needed. Now _that’s_ the whole package. The realest deal. The ultimate, the pinnacle, the… the best. Just the damn best.

Lord. He’s so weak.

“Be my guest,” he says lamely when Preston shifts his weight from foot to foot and clears his throat again, waiting for an answer in a way that definitely tells Deacon that the polite act is all at his expense.

His fingers brush against Deacon’s knuckles as he rubs at his cock, falling into an easy rhythm in counterpoint to the three fingers buried deep inside him. Deacon can feel him getting close, rocking back on the balls of his feet and turning that beautiful face to the crook of his arm, eyes closed and his lips parted as he says _c’mon c’mon Deacon I’m gonna--_

Well, okay. So maybe he didn't get the gold medal and make Preston holler the air blue, but the way he sucks back a breath and stutters out a moan is pretty damn good. An excellent second place, and an image that he's definitely going to replay on his long lonely nights. He comes with a wet pulse down Deacon’s wrist, clutching at him hard enough to make his bones slide and crunch, holding him deep in place as he rides it out.

“And that's my civic duty completed,” says Deacon, licking his fingers clean when he's finally released from Preston’s grip. Garvey pinks up a little as he buckles himself up and brushes the grime from his front, and shakes his head in good natured disapproval as Deacon cleans up the drips of thin watery cum down his wrist with broad strokes of his tongue.

“You're a real flatterer, you know that?" 

“Thank you,” says Deacon with just enough _aww shucks_ in his tone to be completely insufferable. He sucks his finger clean with a pop. “I aim to please.”

Garvey fusses with the radio on his chest, and gives him an all-knowing look from under the brim of his hat. “Though I seem to remember something about you promising to whisper a bunch of sweet nothings in my ear, and not--”

“Hey, look, they can't all be gold,” says Deacon quickly. “Now you'll appreciate it even more when I next take you on an audio-sensory ride.”

“No point in waiting,” says Preston, and takes his face between his hands to give him a sweet kiss. “If you're still lurking tonight I'd like to return the favour.” He skates a palm down Deacon’s chest, his flank, and cups the warm damp heat of his cunt through the worn denim of his patched jeans.

“That can be arranged,” says Deacon, pasting on a suave smile to hide the fact that he's as giddy as a songbird. “Gives me some time to work on my material. Bring my a-game.”

“Wouldn't expect anything less,” says Preston with good humour, and squeezes him enough to remind Deacon that he's hopelessly turned on, hard and wet and raring to go. As if he could forget. As if he'd be _inclined_ to forget.

Fella's got him made, Deacon thinks as Preston gives him a peck on the cheek and smoothes his collar, stepping out into the thin afternoon sunshine to spend a few more hours saving the word.

Garvey’s got his measure, hook, line, and sinker. He couldn't be happier.

**Author's Note:**

> Half the fun of writing amateur erotica of existing media franchises is being indulgently self referential, so this is deffo the same Deacon as [Clandestine Operational Techniques](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8736076?view_full_work=true).
> 
> I have [a Fallout tumblr](http://wastelandbonerhell.tumblr.com) that I use sometimes. Say howdy if you're inclined.


End file.
